


Watch your words

by BookOfXentric



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Awkwardness, Gen, Neurodiversity, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stilinski's are weird, nogitsune recovery, post 3b, the sheriff is a good dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5383163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookOfXentric/pseuds/BookOfXentric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is still recovering from Nogitsune possession and now there’s an intruder in the house.<br/>Super dad to the rescue!<br/>The sheriff’s life is frustrating, weird and awkward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch your words

**Quote of the fic:**  
_“Smartass!” “Yes, I’m smart but it has nothing to do with my ass.”_  
-Bones

OXXXO

 

It’s the blood curdling scream that startles him out of bed and has John immediately grabbing for the gun. It’s a honed reflex, snatching it from its ‘secret’ hiding spot between the mattress and the frame. He’s the Sheriff, it’s within his right –and not strange or creepy at all- to always have a gun within reach and he keeps one close even at night. Just in case. You never know what’s out prowling in the night and he’s got a kid recovering from demonic possession in the house; he’s allowed to be extra cautious. So John sleeps with one eye open these days, especially since Stiles got back to sleeping in his own room. The kid’s not recovered physically yet, he’s still got a few weeks worth of sleep-deprivation to catch up on –which has been the source of several arguments over the last two weeks-. John insists on ordering Stiles to bed the moment his eyes start dropping and Stiles, not surprisingly, argues like the overtired toddler he is in spirit. And hearing a seventeen year old boy make that sound that is only about a hairs width between a whine and a high-pitched wail would be fascinating and hilarious if it wasn’t so infuriating.

Stiles’ spirit animal is definitely a squirrel toddler. Do squirrels have toddlers? They must have.

Mental recovery is a much lengthier process; it may take years. Stiles is back sleeping in his own bed most of the time but he still comes slinking in to John’s room every other night or so. He’s more than welcome –‘whatever you need, as long as you need it’ is their arrangement-. Sure, it had taken a little over three weeks to get Stiles to the point where he could stand being alone in his room for any extended period of time but it’s a step in the right direction. Even if John can’t quite shake off the lingering feeling of total overprotectiveness that consumes him every time he tucks the covers around the kid and leaves the room.

He’s out of bed and making a quick heart palpitating sprint towards Stiles’ room within seconds of the scream when he’s met halfway there by his still hollering son.

John catches him by the shoulders, scans the kid once for visible injuries and breathes relief that untangles one of the knots in his stomach when he finds none. That’s one worry ticked off the list. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles’ eyes are blown wide and John can see the panic boiling in them, dancing like wild fire. “There’s _something_ in my room! In my bed! And it has skin!! It’s breathing!!!” He’s so frantic and spastic he’s pretty much crawling out of his skin.

Poor kid.

John squeezes Stiles’ shoulder to calm and reassure him and prays this is just another red herring, another nightmare. It seems to work, Stiles visibly relaxes in his dad’s grip.

“Go to my room” John instructs “lock the door” He watches Stiles nod at his command and slip around behind him and down the hall towards safety before he adjusts his gun and stance. Thankful that for once the kid did as told without trying to debate.

Once he hears the click of the lock he knows Stiles is secured and turns full focus on the task at hand. The Glock feels warm and heavy in his practiced hand as he raises it to ready. It’s not his service weapon but a private one, he’s got several -safely locked away in a very secure gun cabinet of course- including Ruben the shotgun, the Glock in his hand is Hansi and there’s also a rifle named Kamila… Stilinski’s are weird….

“What do think it is?”

John startles so much he thinks he may have jumped out of his boxers and shamed himself. He spins his head around “Stiles!” he hisses angrily. “Didn’t I tell you to go to my room—”

“—and lock the door. Yeah. I did.” Stiles gives him the wide-eyed innocent stare accompanied by a halfway jerked shrug that makes John’s blood pressure rise. “Not sure why you’d want your bedroom door locked but, hey, you’re the boss.” 

John blinks. His son can’t be that dumb, right? He retraces his words from a few moments ago and sees where he went wrong. “I meant with you in it!”

Stiles flails at him “Why didn’t you say so!?”

“…” John groans with years of pent up frustration but manages to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Just… stay behind me, Ok.” Once he’s assured Stiles is fully covered and out of the line of fire John raises his gun and is about to burst right through the door when he remembers protocol. “This is Sheriff Stilinski. Identify yourself!” He demands.

No response.

That’s as far as he’s willing to go with protocol.

He kicks the door in…

She sits crouched down on the middle of the floor, blinking wide eyes like a doe in headlights and looking nothing like the coyote she is.

She’s also stark naked.

There’s an awkward moment of premature silence in which the three of them process the situation and then…

“Malia!?” Stiles boggles his eyes out at her while John decides the safest option is to become very interested with a poster on the wall as he inches his way towards the drawer to get some clothes. Still a bit surprised there was an actual intruder and not a nightmare. He can’t begin to articulate how relived he is that the intruder is no demonic monster or psychotic werewolf or gigantic murderous vengeance lizard or predator or whatever the hell else is out there rooming around Beacon Hills under the cover of darkness but rather a very awkward feral child. However, there are still some things to address: like Why is Malia _here_? Is she alright? Is she hurt? How did she get in? Does her dad know where she is? and—

“Why are you naked?” Stiles beats him to the punch. John thinks it’s the wrong question, there are several other more pressing ones and you probably shouldn’t open with that one, even if it’s totally legitimate.

However, Malia doesn’t seem at all offended. She shrugs or at least mimics something that resembles an easy shrug “I ran through the woods to get here and my clothes got all ripped so I threw them away.”

“Why?”

She tilts hear head, brows knitting together in ponder “…That’s what they told me at Eichen.”

Stiles face-palms “Who at Eichen told you clothing is optional? ‘cuz it’s going on the list. I’m just tallying up reasons to go over there and have a serious conversation with those people. There are several violations against common sense going on at that place.” He mutters exclusively to the palm of his hand.

“What exactly did they say at Eichen?” John asks as he hands Malia a shirt and a pair of slacks to cover up with.

She accepts the clothes but just hold them in her hands as if she’s unsure what to do “They said: ‘When your clothes break throw them away’.”

 John blinks. “… I don’t think they meant immediately.”

 

THE END


End file.
